The Great Ship Walk - Part Four

[rubyrubyruby]

Ruby's grabbed group of ships, friend and foe, batter and slide upon the shifting seas. Serpentine themes within the ocean lash the fleet elements. Flickering tongues, whipping tails and those undulating bodies influencing the watery currents with lots of strange. Presumably, this all for the purpose of being hell-bent for Cibola. Incarnate tries what she can to adapt to these environments for her own vessel and some of this spreads to nearby ships. It may be via happy accident that the enemies sailing towards the hellish vista ahead are also preserved. Her motives are preservation and endurance, but her ships suffer as she pushes for expedience. "We almost there! Can almost taste bloody place!"
A nice little trick that Doc Lhasa Bonesaw pulled off previously is now replicated by the enemy fleet. Ruby's ship, the Beast, gets thunderously sandwiched.

Within the fleet, the two surviving Arks are having issues. They're big and they have more challenging conditions than the more nimble frigates. To add to it, numerous enemy ships have risked running alongside the behemoths and have launched grapples. Whether it is to use them as wee fishies would a piece of driftwood for shelter, or to try and capture the large prizes, it is another layer of uh-oh.
It is hard for Ruby to judge how the rest of the fleet is faring with her blinders on. With the majority of the fleet parcelled and sectioned amongst Oberon's spawn, and those with esoteric Compasses and Charters, its many efforts that will see success rather than a sole individual.

The undulating seas, rippling and spitting like an ocean of watery serpents has the group of ships that Flame has pulled rising and falling like horses on some macabre marry-go-round. Closing her eyes, Flame seeks their way using the power of the pattern, the taste of the salt spray, ripples in the water and the shocks dealt the ship as sailors of both war fleets are lifted on mini-water spouts and deposited on the Sea's Treasure's deck. One hand moves a bit and she calls, "Point 3 to starboard, please."
Shih, standing nearby, sword gleaming with blood and water, echos the command, sending it racing along to the wheelfemme. The ship begins a ponderous turn as Shih's crew set about sorting friend from foe. Friends are given arms and put to work. Foes are squirreled away in the brig. Hot cider is passed out above and below decks to keep moral boosted. At Flame's command, even the enemy combatants are kept warm, though no one is fed in these seas for fear of the repercussions. As it is, some curling, cresting waves cause burns as the cider sloshes.
Shih's warriors fight like demons, keeping the decking, particularly the area near Flame's station, clear of enemy warriors. The clash of battle, the grunts of surprise and pain, the hiss of spray and injury, wash around Flame and while she hears them all, she does not dare lose focus now.
The battle that rages on her adopted ship is echoed in the struggles around her. The Duchess, severely wounded earlier limps along, still, though her crew are not as evident on deck as those of other ships. Almost fertive movements can be spotted by the sharp of eye, but they seem to be trying not to draw attention to themselves. The Fist, sailing strong and true, sends signals to her sister ship, then turns to try and make a run for the arks, though their presence is misty and distant, the silhouettes of the large ships and those mounting assault are edged with the rainbow hues of mist and Pattern magic.

RPG: Maggie declares that she has the Finessed Shifting (PAT-FS) gift.
RPG: Maggie declares that she has the Locate Shadow (PAT-LS) gift.
RPG: Maggie declares that she has the Non-Visual Shifting (PAT-NV) gift.
RPG: Maggie declares that she has the Adaptive Shifting (PAT-AS) gift.
RPG: Maggie declares that she has the Sense Shadow Trail (PAT-ST) gift.
RPG: Maggie declares that she has the Follow Shadow Trail (PAT-FT) gift.

Quinlan is ...limited, in all this excitement. But he lends what command of Pattern he has to the efforts of those more skilled. And when someone's washed (or thrown) overboard, they're launched via waterspout to the deck of the nearest Shadow-traveling ship. Sadly, the mageling doesn't really have time to make sure it's a *friendly* ship the otherwise-storm-lost land on.

RPG: Quinlan declares that he has the Pattern Walker (PAT-WA) gift.
RPG: Quinlan declares that he has the Arcanis Spellmaster (ARC-SM) gift.
RPG: Quinlan declares that he has the Arcanis Elementalist (ARC-EM) gift.
RPG: Quinlan declares that he has the Arcanis Battlemage (ARC-BM) gift.

Aloft Chase is in the crows nest, his talents more directed at buying the fleet the and space, the air growing cold around the Mandrake ice mage, his voice an inhuman sound whispering words so profane as to be forgotten as quickly as they are heard.

RPG: Chase declares that he has the Ice Warrior (ICE-WR) gift.
RPG: Chase declares that he has the Ice Warrior Master (ICE-WM) gift.
RPG: Chase declares that he has the Battlefield Magic (WAR-BM) gift.
RPG: Chase declares that he has the Artillery Magic (WAR-AM) gift.

The first sailors are being pulled from the water aboard The Whiskers. Boaz wielding a long gaff leans down and hooks up another of the little lost lambs when the sailor to his right pulls up what appears to be an enemy combatant. "Ayyy! You pat attention you lot! Dat dere a .." But he never completes his order as a body flying up via water spout smacks him and sends him back with a oof!
He scrambles up rubbing at his jaw and notes that this one two is a foe but severy more water spouted sailors are with the home team. He claws at the air and makes an exhasperated sound. "Aww shite! You and you! Tie up dese! Put light wounded on watch fer tricks, aye?! Unwounded pull fishes from da sea so we can gets out of 'ere! POST 'ASTE!" Grumbling he stomps back over to the side and looks for more of the lost.

Moxon evacuated Kitezh, but he wasn't the head of the fleet; his only naval victory of note was defeating his erstwhile brother to-- ehm-- invade Amber. As one does. Rather than a wellspring of naval genius, the Ranger instead bails overboard! He... may've... arranged with Quinlan to be shot onto a pursuer's deck, where he can probably do more damage, or at least maintain his bizarre reputation as the offspring of Prince Caine, a rabid grizzly and a rusty chainsaw...

The sea through which the Bedlam Posse plies is roaring like a packed stadium to Martin's momentous rock requiem, belting out of Begman radio and infusing dread urgency in the emotions of the scattered crews. Entirely fitting, as his and Yvonne's collaborative efforts crash them all into a new phase of terror, just as their squadron closes against the enemy fleet, cutting off their attempted flight in a squence of jarring collisions, in both the esoteric and physical sense. Here and there are cracking masts, splitting rails, and the cartwheeling bodies of the ill-prepared. Those who kept their senses are throwing grapples to ensure friend and foe remain tethered. The mass of ships teeters raft-like upon on the churning outer swell of a maelstrom, unable to break away, but that no longer matters; as long as they are moving together, the Patternwalkers can wrench them into the next sequence. Not unconsequential are the battles breaking out at the edges of the vessels, sailors clashing desperately with cutlass and fist to defend the borders.

Chase's magics draw attention and are contested by a number of spell slingers on ships sailing parallel. Fire bolts and cones of force are directed towards his crow's nest where he conducts his ice mastery. The state of the ocean as it is, their first blasts miss with the shifting of their deck, but they start to hone their pair of esoteric efforts his way, and the sails.

Quinlan's efforts save a score of sailors from both sides. Most of them are dazed from the depositing, seeing anchors and stars circling their heads due to concussion. A number of elementalists on the enemy's side are seeking the source of the water funnels, and send up flares to try and shed more illumination. Their magically endowed are coerced and urged to gain height on their own masts and towers to try and spot this merciful summoner.

The Arks heave like breaching whales through the biggest waves. An ill-fated vessel of the Consortium tries to fall back before it and launch grapples, and falls afoul of the treacherous waters. Slipping into the valley of canyon-like wave, the Ark's upraised bow is suddenly exposed and casts a shadow of doom over the entire ship-of-the-line. The hull comes down towards it with a lugubrious groan of timbers.

Moxon's arrival on deck is met with quite a bit of surprise. A full deck of sailors and officers indulge in a mental hiccup before drawing arms and throwing themselves at him. Those that aren't busy keeping the ship afloat.

Quinlan may well be oblivious to the attempts to locate him. He's kind of got a lot to do, with his focus divided as it is. Neither pattern shifting nor Arcanis require the waving of hands - he's using those to cling hard to the rails, with a rope around his waist juuuust in case. If he sticks it out, the nightmare will pass. That, at least, is the apparent hope.

RPG: Moxon challenges a difficulty of 10. Moxon chooses Grace and the gifts BLD-OB and FGT-RE. Moxon succeeds.

Moxon doesn't rely on bullets or blades, allowing pure... *gnashing of teeth* to carry the day. Ducking, dodging, punching, hurling-- he methodically depopulates the ship he's landed on, perhaps initially hoping they'll eventually surrender? No? With a shrug and an animal howl, he returns to the work of introducing his fists into zealot-organs, squatting and barreling and savaging on...

RPG: Chase challenges a difficulty of 9. Chase chooses Wits and the gifts FGT-MM, ICE-WM, ICE-WR, STY-DF, and WAR-AM. Chase succeeds.

The shifting waves are that screen the Mandrake ice dragon also serve to give his art form. His hissing whisper rises in volume until a Dragon's roar booms impossibly from his human throat, the waves leaping from the sea like spears of ice, even as their casters hone in drawing closer, their doom comes like the gnashing of a dragons maw on the hull of the closest ship as the spear of ice bite down on the hull splintering timbers. The spells and waves of force batter the Chase but his roar does not stop.

Captain Shih leaves Flame to be guarded by two of her own. She takes two others forward to better survey the battle in front of them. Taking over the command of the Treasure, she stands near the R.A.D.I.O. operator. Soon a chanting is sent out from her dry, hissing throat. It is probable that she saw the effectiveness of Martin's tactic and wishes to emmulate it. Her chants are primal, filled with the grunting hiss of her savagely changed throat. Her crew take up the rhythmic sounds, encouraging their less ravaged shipmates to do the same. As the Treasure surges forward on the leading edge of an ocean swell, the canon are loaded, the trebuchet and slings are set to fire. More sailors are flung to the decking and dealt with one way or the other.
Fisk's Fist sails forward, unaware of the potential disaster waiting them. They seem to mean to sail from Maggie's influence into Ruby's to lend aide to the arks. Perhaps it is lucky that their progress is impeded by several of the enemy ships. The group come together in a while skattering of splinters and paint. The tussle is on with borders swinging from one ship to the other, cutlasses flashing, screams and curses aplenty.
Like a storm goddess standing tall, Maggie opens her eyes to find their way forward. She does not see the dead at the base of the forecastle, testament to Shih's fighters determination to keep her safe. She does not feel the nicks and cuts that her blood's power will heal in no time. She senses the direction that they must go, feels the pull of wild, dangerous, unstable Cibola. That way, then. Gathering her own abundent resolve, she pulls the ships forward. Soon, she knows, the real fighting will begin.

Boaz pulls another from the almost peaceful waters now that the battle has been left behind...or gone on ahead. He looks about the waters surface and then stops to the other side of the ship to do the same, jaws working hard and teeth grinding.
"Tomas! Any odahs out dere?!" He calls up to the lad atop the mast. The boy looking hard and taking his time as any good lookout should. The waiting causing tendons to crackle in Boaz's hands. "Negative sirah! All's empty!" comes the reply.
"Finally! Rig for storm settin' and get readah!" He calls out to get bodies moving. "An' fer the love oh the de-vine get dem cap-e-tives down behlow!" Hands set about doing as ordered while some try to administer first aid as they can. Boaz sucks in a breath and blows it out. "Bloody 'ell I 'ope dis work." He mutters and then moves to the mast and latches hold with a beefy hand. Mind focusing like dere old mum taught him too. And wonder of wonders the world starts to change and fast as The Whiskers begins to shimmer with rainbow hues and chase after the rest of the war-time fleets.

Ruby's beleagured position is one big grinding scronching mess, with rigging threatening to tangle as the three tightly heaving decks make an undulating fun house. The enemy was better prepared and upon the initial croonch was quicker to board the Beast than she was able to repel them. Within moments blades are swing, punctuated by blind-firing pistols and thrown axes.

All things considered, Merrisol is okay with not having a great sense of the overall picture, through the gun smoke, pellet rain, and sea spray in his immediate vicinity, though the endless cascades of red lighting overhead hints heavily at impeding doom. With navigation matters taken entirely from their hands, he and his captains are free to direct the fighting seadogs and musket-bearing marines to keep their own decks from being overrun by maddened enemy crews. With saber in hand, Merri climbs up some rigging from the quarter deck of the Bedlam and yells out, "Mr. Denielson, your men with me! Mr. Kryshek, see about disarming their gun deck!" A volley of grapeshot at this range would decimate those below decks, but that's war. Without waiting, he yanks free a length of yardarm rope and yeeeehaawws overhead to plow into the enemy ranks, cuffing and kicking as he goes. Once a dozen of the Bedlam's sailors have invaded the adjacent ship, they begin fighting their way back, and while most aren't very particular about the enemy butcher's bill, Merrisol knocks down more than he murderlizes. There's something else in store for these unlucky bastards, he's caught on to that much of Ruby's plan.

Now that there's sounds of battle underway, the creatures that have been guarding certain things below decks no longer hold themselves to doing so. Those nasty dwarf things bearing redcloaks and bearing yellowcloaks now pour forth from the Beast's hold, called up by their leader Mister Wort. He shouts at them in some language that is not Thari, or even from near Amber, apparently commanding them to head over to one of the ships sandwiching their vessel between them.
For his part, Wort laughs wickedly and gives Capatain Incarnate a salute. He then leads the charge, leaping scrambling with surprising nimbleness up some rigging before leaping over to the ship where he's about to cause some carnage. Likewise, his dwarves leap from their ship, but only to dig claws into the hull of the other one to slimb it like a swarm of cloak wearing spiders.
It isn't long before the screaming starts. Wort tears into his foe ferociously, literally tearing seamen limb from limb, when he isn't using their appendages to beat their friends to death with. The dwarves are just as bad; the redcloaks savagely tear into the enemy while the yellowcloaks dart in to aim daggers and small swords at vulnerable bits while otherwise occupied with someone other than them. Craven things, the yellows. Apparently their cloaks are aptly chosen.

Upon his delivery of a rousing Rock Anthem on cue, Martin turns his efforts towards making sure the allied ship armies are not lost in the seas. And lo the is certainly a trail to follow! It is filled with light and sparkles from up the crashing waves against the hulls of Merrisol's ships to the dancing sparkles at the crows nes and the psychadelic changing lights on the sails. If one somehow manages to miss all that due to crazy storm and debris, just follow the teddy bear glitter bomb trail and you can't get lost. The glitter might be impossible to get out later but at least one's ships won't be lost in shadow.

The burn towards Cibola is almost achieved. It can be sensed and perceived by savvy travelers, they being able to note the more similar shadowstuff to herald the place. The smells, weather, hue of the ocean are almost just right. Jockeying for distraction are the visions of nightmarish things, which may hint to the contents of the shadowpath the fleets make for. The combined efforts of shadow-shifting are making it a speedy and terrifying trip as perceived by those that make up the enemy fleet. Some do try to break away and try to risk their lives on what exists beyond the bubble of reality, but hard-fought efforts to herd and keep the majority contained are successful by Merrisol forces. The bill isn't going to be pretty, but the plan is working. With everything streaking towards Cibola, it's a momentum through shadow that must surely leave ripples, along with conscious efforts to provide a path to draft off of if more should follow.

At first there is darkness because Boaz knows no better. But will and description as well as knowing those he knows have already gone ahead aids in his ability. The sea turns into a rolling ride of thirty foot swells. The sloop rushes down crests only to slow as it rises up the next. Voices aboard the ship cry out as a partiularly large wave comes before them and out of the cornor of one eye can be seen sparkling bits within the waves and even some floating in the air.
"DERE! Hard port Mistah Gibbons! HARD PORT AND FOLLOW DEM SPARKLE!" He calls out over the sound of men,waves and creaking ship. And the beleagured Mr. Gibbon's spins the wheel hard and the swift vessel turns and moves along and to the the side of the wave. Listing badly to one side. Loose things shifting across the deck and sailors holdign on to one another lest they be lost in this strange sea.

Someone else is fishing lost sailors out of the sea. Quinlan lets go his magics, giving all his attention to helping Maggie shift shadow. The sooner to end this ...really, really bad trip.

Faint sparkles begin to float back toward the ships Flame is shepharding. At first, sailors who spot them rub their eyes to try and dispell the strange dots. Some presume that they are echoes of the OberSpawn's shifting abilities but they do not fade. More and more of the shimmering spots appear and drift back toward the Sea's Treasure, then past even into the wrenching of reality marking the edge of Flame's influence. As if on que, she twitches, a smile curving ehr lips and the faint whisper of 'Martin' sounding. It might be heard by some, certainly misunderstood by most. If Quinlan is near enough to note, he would certainly understand. Tickling the Pattern in her braaain, Flame hops her own Reality closer to her cousin's
There is a disturbance on the R.A.D.I.O. A fuzz interrupts Shih's chanting as a resounding rock anthem swells hearts and gives resolve to Incarnate's fighting forces. It fades, fuzzles and is replaced by Shih's rhythmic chanting once again. She changes her tempo to match the anthem, trying in her way to extend the power of the moral pick up they gained.
The Treasure sails closer to one of the enemy ships harrassing the Fist. At Shih's signal canon and seige weapons are fired. The hiss of flames flying from one ship to the other is soon lost to the crackle and crunch of wood and the flash of flame. The scene is repeated again and again throughout the ships that struggle in Flame's sphere.
Cibola. Dark, mysterious, murderous. Flame can sense it's nearness in the prickle of the Pattern in her brain, feel it's soggy heat and oppressive air peeking through the air ahead. Nearer and nearer the Pattern shapes reality guided by Flame's will. A swell of power joins hers as she feels Quinlan coming 'online' as it were. She would flash him a tireing smile, but is fairly sure that he would not see it. Still, the 'thank you', while silent, is heartfelt.

Manaical laughing withstanding, Mister Wort is a terrifying foe; he and his are by no means slow about their work, but they seem to favor physical attributes such as speed, strength, and of course ruthlessness and sadism over skill or training. Each foe they take down is made to scream and/or beg for mercy, which just devastates the morale of the rest of the seamen trying to defend the ship.
"Oy!" Wort bellows over at the Beast, "If you want another ship, send some new crew over!" There may or may not be enough left by the time he's done murdering the ones already aboard to handle the ship, and his crew definitely isn't up for making sail at all.

Moxon, covered in blood on a ship of corpses and bereft of so much as a-- do vultures count as helmsmen? He whistles a jaunty Cibolan anthem-- probably about eating your captured opponent's heart. Fricassee. He steers toward the fighting, ongoing, eyeing which ship to take next...

Chase frowns, Cibola, jungles, bugs, and stiffling heat all he things he dislikes most in the world. The Mandrake rubs a sore shoulder as he scan for a target, the irony of freezing somemone to death in swealtering heat is nearly too much for him to pass on.

Those locked onto the Pattern can sense that point when the fleet they are shepherding is on the cusp of all Cibolan reflections, all leading one way or the other into the true Cibola of Amber's reckoning. It is at this point when they recognize the pull of the node storm as well, a wound from which all the tumultuous seas in between have radiated its distorted echoes, like a swelling blister. Festering, it has a gravity, drawing one and all against every better instinct and in fact, it would surely be a fight against one's Pattern-trained instincts to shape that path and seek stability, to instead just. Let go. To embrace the course into oblivion.

Ruby senses this and nearly embraces her instincts to turn it into something less dangerous for everyone. Groaning, she realizes what it is from a previous jaunt and forces herself to do one of the hardest things, which is to go right into the maw of it. To her it feels like taking a run nekkid at a phalanx of spears, or purposefully aiming her ships at a jagged reef. She really, really does not want to play chicken with herself. Inflicting her desires for her idea of reality on the situation is so damn tempting. "I think this be it!" She turns to the Communications officer and tongue-lashes, "Tell everyone tah go with tha flow! Don't-" she cuts herself off as a sail and part of a mast swings dangerously past her. "All 'ands 'old ontah somethin!"

Quinlan is neither warrior nor hero. This is...bad. Very bad. Zero star review levels of bad. And all he can do about it is lend his power to Maggie and hope like crazy. It's possible that 'crazy' is the operative word. He's got a positively white knuckled grip on the railing.

Martin takes a pair of mirror shades out of his pocket as soon as they are about to push into Cibola. His soft words are mostly to himself. "The last time I was in Cibola, I injested a vision inducing drug with some old friends and I recall a lot of sharks, and a message that might have been Eat At Joes. I hope people brought chum because I wouldn't recommend swimming in those waters otherwise." In the heat of the battle chaos around them, likely no one noticed his words. Perhaps a terrified deck hand or two. With a grin he slips on the shades, fully perpared for the glaring Cibola sun. The glitter is definately still easy to follow, Martin has Yvonne dropping them every twenty knots. The groaning of timber and furious lashing of angry waves continues as Martin pushes and pushes towards the node. Yet the sea fights him. The node calls to him, a pulsing beacon just outside of his vision. His mouth is about to open to shout a call of triumph but instead he mutters a curse. "BALLS! EVERYONE HANG ON!" He wraps his wrist against a rope that's tied to the deck. Yvonne does similar.

Wort 'oh shits', as he notices a rather frantic bosun signalling to him. He may not know the signs exactly, but he recognizes the fear on the sailor's features. Right away, he snarls out a loud command which causes his crew to bolt for the ship. He himself isn't wasting any time either, and barrels for the Beast, grabbing his minions and flinging them over to the other ship. Some don't make it, but he doesn't seem to really care much.


RPG: Merrisol challenges a difficulty of 10. Merrisol chooses Force and the gifts FGT-SB, PHY-ST, and STY-PI. Merrisol succeeds.

There comes the insatiable pull across shadow, but to the non-initiated majority it all feels like rollercoaster drop, a falling sensation complete with blurred scenery and the savage thrill of a near-death experience. Merrisol staggers against the chaos of struggling bodies, looking at the sky again, the curving horizons, then trying to find his immediate bearings. Spotting an ally, he lunges in that direction until he can grab the man's arm. "Pass the word along! Get everyone back to our ships /now/!" A helpful shove follows to propel the sailor on his task, while Merri turns upon the battle lines with a new violent intent and all but hacks an opening through for the Bedlam men to escape the enemy deck. Across the ragged squadron front, there goes a similar cry and scramble. By the time Merrisol leaps across the widening gap between ships, his crews are already working with hatchets to cut all lines free of the Consortium fleet.

They sail nearer to Cibola and Flame can feel it. The node. It warbles in off tempo, off key thrumbs of reality gone wrong. She takes a moment to let the acoustics of it ripple through her as she tries for resonance that won't come. An urge to put it to rights wells within her. It could be beautiful, calm and majestic. It could! Just before she releases the urge into the Pattern contained in her head, she stops it. The struggle to contain that impulse is titanic, silent and wrenching. A memory, a promise, an intent stand in the way of her blood's desire. Sweat beads on her brow and is in turn washed away by the sting of salt spray. Gripping the railing before her hard enough to shatter the wood, she cries out in anguish and pain. But the urge is sent deep into her being, locked away for now. As it is shunted aside, the call of the node intensifies. She is able to call, "Brace yourselves!" Then, bolstered by Quinlan's power, she sinks into the chaos of Cibola's reality.
The call goes out over the R.A.D.I.O to all of the ships Maggie draws with her. "Brace Yourselves." Shh and hers do so, though two of the seige weapons are ripped from their moorings and flung away. One tumbles in a long, twisting arch to smash to smithereens against the hull of an enemy schooner that is too close. Too close. A hole is ripped in the schooner's hull and the waters and terrors of Cibola's sea flood the ship's interrior. The other weapon bounces and jounces along the ocean's rolling surface, a hazard in its own right.
Fisk's Fist is not torn asunder by straddling two realities as Cibola solidifies around the ship. The captain, an old hand at the wheel, takes advantage of the enemy's confusion by using harpoons and bracers to shove the two ships away, then swooping out from between them.
The Duchess remains limping along, nearby, but trying to stay mostly out of the way for now. The keen of eye might notice that her crew still mostly lingers below decks though a steady stream begins to weave to the main deck.

The ships are sssslorped into the path. The air tastes of batteries and almost a physical thing that feels gritty between the teeth. Wild flapping pennants of powers lash at ships. Micro pockets of air pressure shove the sky into weird formations. Storm clouds form and roll as if in mimicry of the oceans beneath. Alternating hot or cold winds, and the sea itself opens random whirlpools vomiting up things from the depths or ready to suck down the ill-fated who come too close to them. This is the perilous Cibolan shadowpath. A death sentence to most. There's no need to put a foot down on the gas pedal when the headlong plunge is provided. The Node beckons.